


His and Mine are the Same

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Blasphemy, Developing Relationship, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gun Violence, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:57:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1439239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the gods determine one's soulmate, where to live without the name of one's soulmate is not only a punishment from the gods but a punishment from society, Les Amis are leading a crusade against the theocracy, and Enjolras and Grantaire discover that godsless love might be the purest of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His and Mine are the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an Emily Brontë quote: “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” 
> 
> Though the [goddess Sulis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sulis) was an actual goddess, I've appropriated the name because it seemed fitting, especially given her dual characteristics of life-giving and also curse-giving. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies as always. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos.

On the day of his sixteenth birthday, Enjolras, as with all the other sixteen-year-olds, dressed in simple clothes of white, indicating that he had not yet received his name, and traveled to the nearest Temple of Sulis to pray for his name. The name he would receive — if the gods were merciful — was not his own name, but the name of the person chosen by the gods to be his soulmate.

Though Enjolras had little enough desire to receive some name belonging to some person that he most likely did not know, he knew he was one of the lucky ones. If the gods were not merciful, and he did not receive the name of his soulmate, a normal turn of events for someone his age, he could afford to leave, to return to his life and wait. The poor were not so lucky.

Only those who had received the names of their soulmates, who had sought that person, found them, and started a life with them, could be married, and could receive all the societal benefits marriage brought. And the poor, who needed their soulmate’s dowry or to marry into their soulmate’s land, had to stay and pray every day to learn their names as quickly as possible; the rich could afford to wait.

So Enjolras entered the Temple of Sulis, and was anointed by a red-clad priestess with oil before kneeling before the shrine, closing his eyes, and praying the ritual words: “O Sulis, hear my prayer. In their wisdom, the gods have paired all mankind two by two, and a person is incomplete until they find their soulmate. To be complete, I seek the knowledge of the gods, the name that only the gods can provide. Gods, be merciful on your humble servant, and grant me the name that will complete me.”

And like most sixteen year olds on their birthday, the gods were completely silent to his prayer. Which was fine with Enjolras — he didn’t really believe in any of that, anyway.

In fact, what Enjolras believed was that the whole system — the receiving of the names and the withholding of benefits until one received their name — was a plan by the theocracy to keep the rabble in line, to uphold the wealthy patrons of the Church, and to force their teachings on those who would otherwise question the Church’s power and dogma. And more than anything — especially more than receiving some stranger’s name — Enjolras wanted to overthrow that system for one that was equitable, that allowed those uninterested to not seek their soulmate, or to allow marriages without the inconvenience of trying to find what was essentially a needle in a haystack, even with the benefit of having one’s soulmate’s name.

For these beliefs, Enjolras could be burned at the stake as a heretic, or more likely, given his parents’ status in the theocracy, with his father as one of the Grand Council members, he would be imprisoned in a moderately comfortable estate far from a city where he could spread his message to no more than the servants placed there for his benefit.

But for the moment, a sixteen year old boy clad in white, making the ritual pilgrimage to the temple only to return without a name, his whole future laid before him, Enjolras found only more conviction that overthrowing the entire damned system was the only way to truly change things.

* * *

 

For his part, Grantaire did not care much about the theocracy at all, except to say that he hated them. His mother had made her trek to the temple dressed not in pure white but rather in black, the color forced on an individual who had been born not of a soulmate marriage, but rather an unsanctioned daliance among non-bonded individuals. From her birth until she received the name of Grantaire’s father, she had been forced to wear black, to mark her as what she was. Only the sign of the gods’ forgiveness — in the form of the name she received — was enough to redeem her in society’s eyes, and once she donned her marriage clothes, it was as if the previous nineteen years of her life had not happened, and she was welcomed with open arms.

But she did not forget. And the stories that Grantaire grew up hearing were not so much horror stories as warnings, warnings not to evoke the gods’ wrath, warnings that he was nothing without a name that the gods would give him. When Grantaire lay awake at night as a boy, he did not fear monsters under the bed or in his closet; he feared never hearing the gods’ voices telling him the name that he needed to survive.

So when his sixteenth birthday came, Grantaire simply did not go to the temple. His mother had been lucky enough to marry into a moderately wealthy family; he did not need to be married, not yet, and so he just simply didn’t go, spending the day in his room, reading and drawing and pretending that it did not nag at him like an itch, the knowledge that he could already  _know_ , could already have been blessed with a name, and with the certainty that came with it.

And that night was the first night that Grantaire broke into his parents’ wine, smuggling a few of the dustier bottles up from the wine cellar and drinking them, alone, in his room. The wine made the itch disappear, temporarily, and made him not look up at the stars and question if the gods even cared (since he knew, perhaps more than anyone, that they didn’t).

* * *

 

Whether or not their reasons were similar, Enjolras and Grantaire found themselves brought together on the topic at university, when Enjolras started an underground club for those who had no interest in seeking the names of their soulmates. At least, that’s what he billed it as. Anyone who made it through the intense vetting process knew that it was a group dedicated to those who wanted to tear down the system currently in place in favor of a more open, understanding system.

They were poets, philosophers, anarchists, atheists, the members of Les Amis de l’ABC. They were those who believed in soulmates and those who didn’t. Some among their number had already even found their soulmates. Some had no desire to even look. But all were dedicated to the cause.

All, that is, besides Grantaire.

He believed that the system was broken, certainly; his mother was a product of that brokenness, as were nightmares that still plagued him when he did not spend his nights drinking them away. But he did not believe that the solution was a dramatic overthrow of the theocracy. The world would fall apart. Too many people’s lives depended on the system in place just sit back and let that happen.

He would never even have come along to the meeting in the first place if Bossuet, one of his closest friends, hadn’t all but bodily dragged him there. And once he passed the vetting, carried out, interestingly enough, by a cheerful sort named Courfeyrac who had already received his name, once Grantaire got inside the sanctum sanctorum of the group, the backroom at a nondescript café called the Musain, and once he laid eyes on the beautiful blond man standing at the front of the room, Grantaire knew that he would never need to be dragged to the meetings again.

But as much as Grantaire fell instantly in lust, at the very least, with the beautiful man, it didn’t change his opinions — if anything, made him more stubborn than ever. And he was met with indignation and anger and a fierce, stubborn righteousness in return, which was all Grantaire had never even known he wanted. And the angrier Enjolras got, the more beautiful he got, and the more motivation Grantaire had to continue inciting that anger.

Perhaps this was the answer that the gods had never gotten to give him. Or perhaps this was his punishment for never seeking the gods’ wisdom in the first place. Grantaire didn’t care, so long as he was able to see Enjolras.

Enjolras, for his part, did not understand why Grantaire’s anger — and it was clear that Grantaire had just as much anger towards the theocracy as their most dedicated members — did not somehow extend into action, into a desire to free them all from the bonds of the theocracy. But whenever he suggested something to that effect, Grantaire — with his hooded eyes and his sinful lips — would just laugh at him and call him naïve.

And Enjolras, who had never spared a moment’s thought to someone in that way, not since his single trip to the temple, began to spend his nights lying awake in bed, wondering how best to get through to Grantaire, how to get him to the side of the Cause.

Perhaps this was the answer that the gods had been trying to give him all along.

Enjolras made it his personal mission to convert Grantaire, explaining to a skeptical Courfeyrac and Combeferre that if they could convert the most cynical of their number, how would they be unable to convince the general populace? So he began spending as much of his free time not already dedicated to the Cause as he could with Grantaire, arguing with him coffee shops, walking aimlessly with him around the city as they bickered back and forth.

Every day, without exception, they would end back in front of Grantaire’s apartment, where Enjolras would ask hopefully, “Have I changed your mind yet?”

To which Grantaire would reply, with that smug half-grin of his, “Not yet. But by all means, keep trying.”

The cycle repeated itself for weeks until one day, after their usual exchange, Enjolras couldn’t stand it anymore, itching to know more about Grantaire, to understand him, to change his mind even when all previous attempts to do so had failed. “Don’t you  _want_  to believe?” he burst, almost desperately.

To his surprise, Grantaire did not laugh or mock him. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his eyes darkening. “I want to believe more than anything,” he said, finally. “I want to believe that love without a preordained love can be as good and pure and accepted as love destined by the gods. I want to believe that we can freed from the bonds of the theocracy, that society can be open, that we are not required to obey the gods’ every whim.” His half-grin returned, but it was softer this time, almost wistful. “But wanting to believe is not enough to make me believe.”

“But — why?”

Grantaire’s expression seemed to close, and he turned away. “You should go,” he said, heavily, ready to head up to his apartment as he always did.

This time, though, Enjolras did not let him leave, instead reaching out to catch his sleeve, to hold him in place, his eyes questioning, searching. “Why?” he repeated, his voice quiet, their faces mere inches apart.

Grantaire shook his head slightly, and his eyes were sad as he whispered, “Because for me to believe, for the world to change, there would be a battle. Many would die. The sworn soldiers of the theocracy, the Theocratic Guard, those sworn to protect and obey the will of the gods, they would not just let this happen. And I couldn’t let  _that_  happen.”

Enjolras’s hand slipped down Grantaire’s sleeve to circle his wrist. “Why not?”

“Because the only reason I believe in a godsless love is the very man who would be at the forefront of that battle.” Grantaire took a deep, ragged breath, still looking determinedly at Enjolras, who could not look away if he tried. “And it would be the most selfish thing of all to wish simultaneously to be free of the theocracy while also hoping the man I love is not involved in making it happen, when he would desire above all to be there.”

When Enjolras just stared at him, mouth slightly open, Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Must I spell it out for you? Because I cannot lose you, cannot let you fight what would be a losing battle in hope of something that would never be.” He turned away again, his shoulders sagging. “Now let me go.”

But Enjolras did not let go, and Grantaire turned back, frowning. “Let me go, Enjolras.”

“I can’t do that,” Enjolras whispered, his expression still blank. “Not when I know that there is a way to make you believe.”

“A way that I will not let you pursue,” Grantaire told him. “Especially not when you do not feel the same. Now let me  _go_.”

Enjolras’s voice cracked when he asked, “You think I don’t feel the same?”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I  _know_  you don’t feel the same. You have no desire to search for your soulmate which can only mean you have less desire for some worthless do nothing. So let me go and we will not discuss this again.”

“I have no desire to search for my soulmate because I do not need the gods or the theocracy telling me who to love,” Enjolras said quietly, his grip on Grantaire’s wrist not loosening. “And if I did not feel the same way about you, then why would I have spent the past several weeks trying to convince you that our cause had merit?”

Staring at Enjolras with wide eyes, Grantaire suggested breathlessly, “Because you are delusional?”

“Maybe I am,” Enjolras acknowledged, just as breathlessly, “or maybe…” And without elaborating, he closed the space between them and kissed Grantaire.

For a moment, they kissed as if they could not get enough of each other. But then Grantaire pulled away, looking almost panickedly down the street. “Come upstairs,” he said quickly, “so we can talk freely.”

He led Enjolras upstairs, both of them silent, and when Enjolras got into Grantaire’s apartment, he was distracted momentarily by the large canvases around the surprisingly spacious apartment. “I didn’t know you painted,” he said, stepping towards one of the canvases.

Grantaire smiled tightly. “My mother said that my talent was a gift from the gods,” he remarked offhandedly. “And speaking of gifts from the gods…”

Enjolras turned to look at him, taking a deep breath. “I did not know how to put to words what I was feeling for you, why I was so determined to convince you. Love…godsless love or soulmate love…it was not something I had ever sought. Not because of its illegality, but because I did not think I had time, or the inclination. But then…with you…”

He trailed off, but Grantaire nodded in understanding. “And now?” he asked, lightly, as if he didn’t care about the answer.

In response, Enjolras crossed to him and kissed him again. Grantaire kissed him back before whispering, “I love you. Gods be damned.”

Enjolras stilled, his hands gripping Grantaire’s hips. “That’s blasphemy,” he said mildly.

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “You run a group dedicated to overthrowing the order designated by the gods,” he pointed out, just as mild, though a smile threatened at the corners of his mouth. “Pot, meet kettle.”

“That is a very good point,” Enjolras whispered, and tugged him towards the bedroom, kissing Grantaire hungrily as they went. “And if we blaspheme, at least it is together.”

* * *

 

As they lay together afterward, Enjolras skimmed his hand slowly up and down Grantaire’s side, reveling in the kind of touches he had never thought to allow himself, soulmate or otherwise. This — what they had done here, the blasphemy that they had willing wrought — this felt so  _right_. Which made him wonder if, perhaps, it  _was_  right.

Grantaire rolled over to face him, smiling crookedly up at him. “I can hear you thinking,” he said softly, reaching up to tangle his fingers with Enjolras’s. “What thoughts are running through that mind of yours?”

“How right this feels,” Enjolras answered honestly, eyes searching Grantaire’s. “Right enough that it makes me want to run to the nearest Temple, to demand the answer from the gods that I already know, the answer that’s right in front of me.”

Grantaire’s smile faded slightly. “You think I’m your soulmate?” he asked quietly.

Enjolras propped himself up on his elbow, frowning slightly. “I think it’s a real possibility,” he admitted. “I have never felt this way about anyone. By definition, isn’t that what a soulmate should be, should feel like?” He bit his lip, hesitating before asking, “Don’t you feel the same way?”

“Of course,” Grantaire answered, instantly, smiling at Enjolras, though the smile was fleeting. “I just don’t see the need to ask the gods to verify it.”

A small furrow settled between Enjolras’s eyebrows. “On any other day, I would agree with you, would want to use this as another protest. But until we overthrow the system, there are legal benefits to being confirmed soulmates, benefits that I want more than anything to guarantee for you.”

“And yet we’re years away from needing those benefits,” Grantaire countered, cocking his head slightly. “Unless you know of a reason I need to be guaranteed burial in your family’s cemetery plot with full church honors. Or if I need to be concerned about access to your inheritance. Rights to our nonexistent children. Etcetera.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Of course not. But it’s more than that. In the eyes of society…” He trailed off, knowing that Grantaire most of all did not need to be reminded how society viewed those who had not found their soulmates. “Why don’t you want to verify that we are soulmates? There must be a reason.”

Grantaire rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Because what if we aren’t?”

Enjolras froze for a moment, but thought of how right this felt, how his heart seemed to beat in sync to the man next to him, and shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

“But we may not be,” Grantaire told him, his voice calm, measured. “And even if we are, would it make any difference? Would it make any difference to know for sure, one way or another, or to live our lives the way that we have been, without even knowing it, as soulmates in all but name?” Enjolras shook his head slowly, but didn’t answer, and Grantaire rolled over and cupped his cheek, eyes searching his as he asked, “What can the gods tell us that we can’t tell each other?”

Enjolras stared back at him for a long moment before leaning in and kissing him. “You’re right,” he admitted, finally.

Grantaire’s eyes widened comically. “Words I never thought I’d hear you say.”

Shoving him slightly, Enjolras made a face, but then drew Grantaire close again, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. “We do not need to seek an answer from the gods yet.”

“Or ever,” Grantaire added.

Enjolras nodded. “Or ever. With you here, with this feeling like it does, the gods cannot tell us anything we don’t already know. And that is enough.”

* * *

 

Of course, this did not solve Grantaire’s misgivings, nor did it dissuade Enjolras from thinking that an uprising against the theocracy was the only way to change things. And while they found comfort in each other in their moments together, Les Amis’ movement was growing out of the back room of the Musain and beginning to take root, bringing them closer and closer to outright rebellion.

Enjolras was hauled in for questioning by the theocracy, and not even those who had been granted their names by the gods were safe. There was talk of the theocracy revoking names granted by the gods in punishment, though thankfully that remained just talk.

Still, things were going to come to a head sooner or later, and on one night, as he and Enjolras lay together, Grantaire told him, a little desperately, “Regardless of what the gods say, regardless of the theocracy, I love you. You know that, right?”

Enjolras smiled wordlessly at him and rolled on top of him to kiss him soundly.

And the next day, it all went to hell. A pilgrimage en route to a temple were interrupted by protesters, and the Theocratic Guard was called to put the protest down. Instead, it spread like a wildfire, rebellions popping up across the city. Some even barricaded the entrance to the main temple.

Enjolras, of course, was among them, and at his side, despite his misgivings, was Grantaire.

For an entire day, it seemed as if the rebellion might succeed, as if this had finally called to attention the inequity inherent in the theocratic system. But by nightfall, reinforcements from the Theocratic Guard arrived, putting out the smaller rebellions and moving towards the larger, toward the barricade.

And the following morning, when even Enjolras had to admit that they had lost, when he insisted that they flee, so that none need die, as their blood would only be twisted as a sacrifice to Sulis on the steps of her Temple, a Guardsman opened fire on them, aiming specifically at the blond who had been at the center of the whole rebellion.

It was everything Grantaire had feared, which was why he dove in front of the bullets aimed at Enjolras, taking them in his side as they fled.

When they got to the Musain, when they were discussing future plans and how to stay under the radar until things settled down (or if that was the right move, as Enjolras hotly insisted that they needed to continue stirring the people’s sentiments), Grantaire let out a little gasp and collapsed sideways from his chair. And when Joly pushed his jacket back and saw the blood that had stained Grantaire’s shirt, he paled.

Enjolras knelt next to Grantaire, tears in his eyes. “He needs to go to a hospital,” he told Joly, clutching Grantaire’s hand. “We must take him.”

Combeferre touched Enjolras’s shoulder. “We cannot,” he said, his voice grave. “We cannot risk you or any of us being discovered yet.”

“And there is nothing a hospital could do,” Joly said quietly. “Nothing that we cannot do here, which is keep him comfortable, and in peace.”

Courfeyrac stood, unsteadily, his face ashen. “I shall fetch a priest,” he said, swallowing hard. “One sympathetic to our cause. Grantaire will not be denied rights to the afterlife for a cause he did not even believe in.”

Grantaire raised a shaking hand to Enjolras face, stroking his thumb across Enjolras’s cheekbone. “You cannot,” he whispered. “I am unwed. I shall not be granted full rites. My soul shall not make it to the Land of the Undying.”

“A priest willing to give final rites will be willing to marry you and Enjolras,” Bahorel said impatiently, pale-faced as well.

Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned into Grantaire’s touch, tears beginning to drip down his cheek as Grantaire whispered, “We cannot be married, either. We are Nameless.”

Silence met that announcement. Everyone knew that Enjolras and Grantaire were together, for they had made little secret of it among their friends. But no one knew — no one had been told — that Enjolras and Grantaire were dating godslessly. Enjolras shook his head, eyes not leaving Grantaire’s. “I shall go to the Temple,” he said hollowly. “If I dress in the pilgrim’s white, none will dare stop me, not even the Theocratic Guard. And I know the secret ways to slip back unnoticed.”

Grantaire’s face tightened, and Enjolras wondered if here, now, they were going to have their usual fight. But instead, Grantaire nodded slowly. “Do what you must,” he rasped. “But hurry.” He squeezed Enjolras’s hand, though his grip was weak.

“I will,” Enjolras promised.

He donned the white clothes quickly and slipped out of the Musain, singlemindedly focused on getting to the Temple. But as he slipped through the back alleys and the side streets not frequented by Theocratic Guard patrols, every footstep away from Grantaire seemed to fill him more and more with dread, like a pit growing in his stomach, and he faltered, stopping in an alley and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t  _not_  do this.

But what if Grantaire’s fears proved correct? What if they weren’t soulmates? Or what if now, in his most desperate need, the gods withheld what he needed most? What would he do then besides doom Grantaire’s soul more than he already had with their blasphemy?

And then he was reminded of Grantaire’s words, of his crooked grin as he had asked Enjolras, “What can the gods tell us that we can’t tell each other?”

And Enjolras, for the first time, realized what Grantaire had meant, realized that his words were true. If the gods gave Enjolras Grantaire’s name, they would only confirm what they both already knew. And if they didn’t…well, those were not gods that Enjolras trusted or needed anyway.

So he turned back towards the Musain, hurrying as fast as he could, as fast as he could without running, hurrying to Grantaire’s side to tell him what Grantaire had known all along. He burst into the Musain, ignoring everyone’s questions, asking what he had learned, and knelt by Grantaire’s side. “I couldn’t do it,” he told Grantaire, clutching his hand and squeezing it. “I love you, and I do not need the gods to tell me that. And if your soul does not reach the Land of the Undying because of that, then when I die, my soul shall find yours wherever it is, because there is no soulmate for me who is not you.”

He bent and kissed Grantaire, his kiss desperate, and he could taste the blood in Grantaire’s mouth. “I love you, too,” Grantaire whispered.

At that moment, Courfeyrac appeared with the priest, Father Mabeuf from the local parish, and Enjolras stood, his eyes flashing around the room before he lied firmly, “We have been Named in the light of the gods at the Temple of Sulis.”

The priest glanced around the room, but no one contradicted Enjolras — not here, not now. Mabeuf nodded his head and looked down at Grantaire, who was started to tremble, his breathing growing ragged. “Then face each other, and recite your vows before the gods.”

Enjolras knelt at Grantaire’s side again, taking both his hands in his and together they said, Enjolras’s voice strong and firm, Grantaire’s no more than a breath, “In the name of the gods you have been named as mine, and I yours. The gods themselves cannot separate our souls, nor can time, nor can death. When we die, our souls will be together in the Land of the Undying. I swear this by all the gods and by my love for you.”

Without waiting for Father Mabeuf’s instruction, Enjolras leaned down to kiss Grantaire, sealing their oath, not caring then or ever if it was blasphemy of the worst kind, caring only that before the gods and under the law, they were married. As soon as they broke apart, Mabeuf whispered, “I pronounce you now married and confer upon your union every protection of the law.”

He moved to kneel on Grantaire’s other side, taking one of his hands from Enjolras, and began hastily whispering the last rites. Grantaire did not look away from Enjolras, even as his grip on Enjolras’s hand began to falter. Soon, Mabeuf bowed his head and intoned, “I pronounce your soul for the gods.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and bent to rest his head against Grantaire’s, feeling tears leak from the corners of his eyes. “Do not weep,” Grantaire breathed. “Now I can die in peace, and our souls will find each other. One way or the other. We are bound together, you and I, gods be damned.”

Then he closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the ground, and Mabeuf pronounced, “His soul has joined the gods.”

And Enjolras wept freely, refusing to leave Grantaire’s side for the entire night.

The next morning, he stood, eyes dry, and surveyed the rest of the Amis. “We have work to do,” Enjolras said softly. “Until this never happens again. We have work to do.”

* * *

 

Their fight had only just begun, and it took years, but change happened, slowly at first, with priests and sects declaring that they would perform marriage and last rites on any who wished it, named or unnamed, and then moved like a tidal wave, until the theocracy itself was overthrown, until the Theocratic Guard threw down their weapons and shouted and cheered with the rest.

And when Enjolras, older and perhaps a little wiser but no less full of fire than before, stood on the steps of the Theocracy’s Great Cathedral and announced proudly, “There is no such thing as godsless love! All love comes from the gods, named or otherwise!”, when he heard the cheers and screams in support, he allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and think of Grantaire, who had wanted to believe.

Had he, in the end? Or like being named, did it not matter?

Enjolras would never know, but he liked to believe that Grantaire had found it in himself to believe, in the end.

The shrines and temples were maintained for those who wished to seek their soulmates, but it was no longer a requirement for anyone to marry or to live their lives the way that they chose. When the people complained that it was still an elitist system, that only the rich could take the time to travel, that the poor were forced to marry without knowing their soulmates, the church — a splintered church now, no longer a unifying force — began sending traveling priests and priestesses to visit poorer parishes and lead them in the prayers and guide the poor toward their soulmates, if they so chose.

Enjolras claimed to retire from a life of activism, knowing that while the world was still not fully equal, it was a younger man’s game now. He had his studies and his friends, and it was more than enough for him after a lifetime of fighting. Of course, he didn’t  _really_  retire, and when issues arose, when the theocracy tried to take root in parts of the city, tried to reestablish itself, he joined with the others in protesting and ensuring they did not resurface.

After many long years, the doctor — no longer Joly now, as he had to retire when he started losing his eyesight — told Enjolras what he already knew, that his soul was not long for this world, and for the first time in many, many years, Enjolras made the pilgrimage to the Temple of Sulis. He did not bedeck himself in white now, not after all these years, but he went with an open heart and an open mind, praying the words so different now than the ones he had prayed all those years ago:

“O Sulis, hear my prayer. In their wisdom, the gods have paired all mankind two by two, so that a person may find a certain kind of completeness in their soulmate. To find one’s soulmate is a choice, one that I choose here and now, seeking the knowledge of the gods, the name that they might provide. Gods, be merciful on your humble servant, and grant me the name of my soulmate, or completeness in myself without a name.”

Just like the stories all said, the ones Enjolras had grown up with and never quite believed, he heard the name quite clearly, like the calm, gentle voice of a woman speaking into his ear: “Grantaire.”

And there, kneeling on the stones of the Temple of Sulis, his body and soul ready to depart this world to find Grantaire again, Enjolras wept, wept with the knowledge that he had always known, and the knowledge that he would soon be joining Grantaire again in the afterlife.


End file.
